


Country Afternoon

by RussianWitch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Don't copy to another site, Exhibitionism, Fluff and Smut, Leather Kink, Leather Trousers, M/M, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 20:52:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17567762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: Greg and Sherlock take a day off.A picknick gets heated.





	Country Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

> not beta'd

He clutches at Greg as tight as he can, plastering himself to the older man’s back. The motorcycle roars, vibrating under them as it eats up the miles back into the City.

Sherlock isn’t used to not being able to think unless under the influence or in the middle of an orgasm. The vibration of the engine resonates through the seat and his body, his ass throbbing the vibrations making him squirm, the seam of his trousers teasing his sore hole.

Greg guns the engine skirting the speed limit almost like he can read Sherlock’s mind. 

\----------------------------

The country is something full of useless things and dirt as far as Sherlock is concerned. The rarely bothers with it, unless a particularly interesting case is offered. Greg on the other hand—like camping and communing with nature.

Relationships are supposed to be about compromise, or so Mycroft told him when he confronted Sherlock about Greg, a partnership. Out of all possible compromises, Sherlock decided that spending several hours bored to tears was the most acceptable of the bunch. Having Greg’s full attention for himself doesn’t hurt, neither does the way Greg looks in leather pants, worn in, no longer fitting as loosely as they used to, still framing Greg’s ass in a very satisfactory manner.

Greg kisses him in the tall grass, tasting of sugary tea and peach preserve Tesco house brand, not the expensive stuff. He’s pressed into the blanket, the long grass rustling around them in the south-east breeze, there are no other humans for several miles, just a stray bovine 1.3 miles and one fence away from them. Greg’s hands are cool when they slide under Sherlock’s t-shirt, warming up against Sherlock’s skin as they work their way up.

Greg slides between his legs, a solid weight pinning him to the ground. 

As Greg worries at his throat, Sherlock watches the blue-grey sky and the hypnotising way in which the wispy clouds drift past. His body heats up, Greg’s mouth finds a nipple peeked by the breeze, his teeth a mild sting that wakes Sherlock’s body, his cock filling as Greg rocks against him. 

He likes Greg on top of him, solid and warm, inventive with his mouth and hands.

They work together to get Sherlock’s boots and trousers off leaving his naked under the summer sun, sprawling on the swamp-green blanket, on display for all the world to see.

“God, you’re hot,” Greg mutters mostly to himself crouching over him, the leather of his trousers slick and cool against Sherlock’s bare skin.

When Greg starts to wrestle with them, trying to get them off without getting up, Sherlock stops him. “Keep them on!” He orders hooking a leg around Greg’s thigh to force him closer.

Greg laughs, groping in the basket for lube as he hoists Sherlock’s ass into his lap.

“Should I have worn the gloves as well?” he teases, greasing up his fingers and plunging them into Sherlock’s body. 

Sherlock groans and bucks, the intrusion unnatural and welcome at the same time, his body yielding, opening up to Greg’s coaching, his nerves warming up to the promise of pleasure to come. 

Greg gropes in the basket and curses, “I thought I threw in the rubbers.”

They could stop, Sherlock thinks considering the mess, bring each other off with their hands and mouths. Greg has insisted on using rubbers from the start— “Fuck me!” Sherlock decides, the prospect of feeling Greg without a barrier between them, have him spill inside of him strangely appealing despite the mess it’s going to make.

“Are you sure?” Greg says, but Sherlock can feel his cock twitch against his thigh.

“Greeeeeg!” Sherlock drawls, arching his back and neck, undulating against the blanket.

If there is one thing Greg cannot resist, it’s Sherlock submission, theatrical and fake as it is. He doesn’t need any more encouragement, replacing his fingers with his cock, stretching Sherlock further, making him moan at the sting. 

It always stings when Greg pushes in, always makes Sherlock whine and claw at Greg’s shoulders. His attention turns inwards, his nerves singing as he’s filled until Greg’s balls slap against his own pushing his thighs wider.

Greg stills, panting for control against Sherlock’s throat his fingers digging into his hips with bruising strength. 

Kissing Sherlock roughly before he can protest, Greg fucks his mouth with his tongue until they are both panting for breath.

The grass around them whispers, the sound ebbing and flowing as Greg moves. 

Slow almost lazy thrusts rock Sherlock across the blanket, the wool burning his back pleasantly. Sherlock wraps his legs around Greg’s thighs, strokes the leather with his heel and ankle to feel more of it. Greg’s chest hair tickles, just the right side of rough adding another layer of sensation to the ones running riot along his nerves. 

Sherlock’s cock is trapped between them, Greg’s furry belly dragging against the sensitive head with Greg’s every move.

It’s dizzying like the sky above them. 

Dragons in the clouds chasing each other.

“ … lock,” Greg groans against his throat. 

He’s panting and covered with sweat, wild-eyed when Sherlock looks at him again, looking determined. Sherlock smiles at him, rubs his fingers over the sweaty bristle at the nape of Greg’s neck.

“Yes,” he hisses, “come on, Gregory,” tightening his body, digging his heels in Greg’s back, tightening his body around Greg’s cock.

Above them, a seagull hangs in the sky its cry echoing across the grassy expanse.

Greg’s rhythm falters, becomes erratic, he groans and huffs arching into Sherlock’s hand when he sinks his nails into the back of Greg’s neck. He slumps over Sherlock, shuddering as he spills into him grunting and cursing a heavy weight on Sherlock’chest.

Ignoring his own body’s demands, Sherlock holds him close waiting for Greg to catch his breath again.

Part of him revels in the closeness; the trust Greg gives him despite knowing better, part of him wants to take Greg apart, dissect the reason for his naivete, for his blind optimism. He kisses Greg’s temple, nibbles at his ear squirming under the weight of him to get himself off as well.

“Stay still!” Greg orders against the side of his throat, “I’ll take care of you in a minute.” 

He doesn’t listen, nipping at Greg’s ear instead to egg him on.

Laboriously Greg drags himself up onto his hands and knees, licking and sucking his way down Greg’s throat and chest, all the way down to nuzzle at Sherlock’s hard cock.

Greg’s mouth on him makes Sherlock pant and whine, his hips pinned to the blanket. Wet heat surrounds him, friction driving him higher, the sky brilliant above them. Greg sucks him slow and teasing backing off every time he thinks Sherlock is coming close.

He claws at the blanket, and the grass tries to thrust up into Greg’s mouth with no success. With his legs over Greg’s shoulders, Sherlock is helpless, trapped in the dizzying expanse of blue and Greg’s ministrations 

Orgasm comes with bruises on his hips, a glimpse of day stars above the blue expanse and a shivery feeling taking over his whole body, quieting his mind of what seems like an eternity.

When Sherlock can think again, he’s in Greg’s arms, curled against his side warm and safe and still.

\--------------------------

Sherlock watches Greg’s ass as they trudge up the stairs to Greg’s flat.

He would have preferred to take the elevator, but with it being broke, they don’t have much of choice.

Running his hand over the smooth, black leather curving lovingly over Greg’s backside, Sherlock indulges and impulse and squeezes.

Greg stops mid-stride, turning to Sherlock, his brow raised in amusement.

“Aren’t you sated?” he says, grabbing for Sherlock’s shirt.

“It seems not,” Sherlock muses, squeezing again.

He’s dragged up onto the next landing, slammed against the graffitied wall, pinned in place as Greg gropes him right back.

“You really like the leather, huh?”

Greg’s hands are ruthless on Sherlock’s trousers, exposing him, stroking roughly until he’s hard and aching, already starting to leak into Greg’s hand. 

“I bet you’d love to rub yourself off on my trousers, wouldn’t you?” Greg pants, and despite the public location, Sherlock really likes the idea.

“Please,” he pants, thrusting into Greg’s hand. 

“Like the idea of making a mess on them?” Greg keeps going, “you’ll have to clean it up if you do.” 

Sherlock grabs Greg by the hips, drags him closer so Greg’s leg slides between his. He moans softly enjoying the way his cock catches on the smooth leather, his balls stinging squished between them as Sherlock rocks his hips rubbing his dick against Greg’s thigh. 

“That’s it,” Greg whispers into his ear, “good boy.” 

Affront twists in Sherlock’s gut, but the words make him feel warm as well; they fan the arousal adding to the space of fucking in the open.

Greg’s hands slip into the waist of Sherlock’s pants, they squeeze his ass with every thrust. Workman’s hands rough on his skin.

“Show me,” Greg demands.

The leather has turned slick with all the pre-come Sherlock’s leaking, glistening in the faint light of the stairwell lamp when Sherlock looks down. His mouth waters as he imagines himself on his knees licking his mess off the leather, the taste and smell of it mixed with the smell of Greg making his head spin as he drags his tongue along Greg’s thigh in long strokes.

He comes, imagining Greg’s hand in his hair forcing his head back, his cock sliding down his throat, ropes of come painting the leather, dripping down Greg’s thigh.

“So good for me,” Greg says, kissing Sherlock’s cheeks as he gets himself under control, “so beautiful.” 

In his lassitude, Sherlock forgets to sneer at the praise nipping at Greg’s fingers when they come into range until he catches his breath.

Greg gasps when Sherlock sinks to his knees right there on the landing and nuzzles at his crotch. The trousers are too thick to feel his breath, but Greg can imagine it as Sherlock buts his head against his hip like a cat mouthing his way over to the edge of the mess.

Sherlock sticks out his tongue, pale and pink in the darkness, flicks the lips against the end of a drying rivulet wrinkling his nose at the taste. It doesn’t stop him from dragging his tongue against the mess one more time, applying more pressure to make sure nothing is left behind. 

Above him, Greg braces against the wall, boxing Sherlock in against it, crowding him until he has to twist awkwardly to get at the stains, his arms around Greg’s legs encouraging him to come even closer.

His cock grows in the confines of his trousers eager to feel Sherlock’s clever tongue.

“Such a good boy,” Greg moans, thrusting his hips into Sherlock’s face and getting his ass slapped.

“Busy, Gregory,” Sherlock slurs between licks, a thin string of saliva connecting his tongue to Greg’s trousers, wishing there was more mess for him to clean up. He licks his way up to the zipper lashing it with his tongue until he gets to the tab, taking it between his teeth and pulling.

Greg helps him by undoing the button and pushing his hair out of Sherlock's face so he can concentrate on mouthing along Greg’s length. He teases the thick fresh out of the confines of Greg’s trousers, wraps his lips around the head.

Greg’s skin tastes of leather and sweat, he fills Sherlock’s mouth pleasantly teasing at the edge of his throat. He closes his eyes reading to give himself over—when footsteps sound at the bottom of the stairs. 

Greg pulls out with a curse putting himself away and helping Sherlock off his knees as voices come closer cursing the broken elevator.

“Flat, now!” Greg orders, clamping a hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck, “so I can fuck that mouth of yours proper.”  


End file.
